Around Eleven
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: I made a list of some things that had to get done before the sun came up...


_Thank you to Cincoflex for salvaging this and help me get to the root of the problem. It was much appreciated.

* * *

_"I . . . am busy," Grissom supplied to Catherine's question as he shrugged on his jacket. Catherine simply blinked at him as she stood, still hanging against the jamb.

He paused as he buttoned the jacket, waiting for her to leave but clearly that wouldn't happen unless he supplied her with an acceptable reply.

"You're not going out with Sara, are you?" the blonde posed, arching a single brow in challenge.

"What?" Grissom asked incredulously. "No," he stated in a flat, immediate tone as he walked around the desk to switch off the few lamps the office contained.

Catherine nodded, flattening her back against the cool frame of the door, allowing him to pass her as he attempted to shut his door. She pushed herself away from the wall. Grissom made his way down the hall, pulling at the hem of his jacket; Catherine followed. "You know I'm going to ask you where you're going," she supplied, her heels clicking after him. "You might as well tell me."

"Getting coffee," he sighed, feeling it was much easier to acquiesce to her request than to be badgered about it any further.

Again, Catherine nodded, but continued to trail after him. "With who?"

"Myself," he shot back quickly, nearly to the door. A huff of a laugh came from the woman behind him.

"Yeah, not in that jacket—try again."

Reaching the lab door, Grissom turned quickly around, smiled serenely at Catherine and said, "With someone I met at the seminar last week; does that suffice?"

Her interest refocused itself. "So, he's into bugs?" Catherine asked in a bored tone.

Feeling the need to straighten both his collar and his spine, Grissom lifted his shoulders as he tightened his lips into a thin line. "She's . . . more interested in blood than bugs." Catherine blinked and watched as he exited the lab, his strides confident.

She spun on her heel and made her way back to the break room. Sara was lounging on one of the worn sofas against the wall reading something; Nick was reading the paper and eating an apple far too ripe to be appetizing. Both heard Catherine approach and lifted their heads from their respective activities.

"Could have sworn it was you," she muttered as she allowed her eyes to drift over to Sara, who'd actually started looking happier lately.

"Excuse me?" the brunette returned, pulling her head up from the book.

Catherine shook her head and made her way over to the coffee pot. "Sorry, nothing . . . just, something threw me, that's all."

"What did?" Nick asked, the disinterest completely evident in his voice.

"Oh, just, Gil's going out for coffee with one of his students . . . or something." Catherine answered, grabbing her mug of coffee and settling down with it across the table from Nick. She still looked a bit confused. "But . . . not really?" Shrugging and shaking her head, Catherine picked up the section of the newspaper that was nearest her on the table.

"Why did THAT throw you?" Nick asked, noticing Sara's attempt to appear nonchalant. He turned to toss his apple core into the barrel near the door.

Though Sara's face betrayed no outward emotion, the ball of nerves that was usually settled in the pit of her stomach was now in her throat. It meant nothing; it was just coffee. But if it was _just_ coffee with this student, it could have been coffee with her.

With a wave of her hand, Catherine attempted to dismiss the question. "Well," she began, "I just thought . . . I mean, the body farm . . . and he finds a woman who . . . and a student . . . I don't know, it doesn't--it just sounds strange." Sipping her coffee, she finished, "I'm tired, don't even listen to me."

Catherine left the room, Nick left a few minutes later; Sara stayed on the couch, her book laying forgotten at her side.

A student from a seminar. The body farm. A student from the seminar at the body farm. A female student from the seminar.

Eleven years prior (really, had it been that long?) **she** had been the student that he had taken out for coffee. **She** had been the student who he'd called a friend, had built a relationship with, had been the one to catch a last minute flight to come out and lend him a hand.

And she had been the one to stay and fall in love with him. Foolish young girl she had been, such a foolish young thing. Now she was just foolish, and not nearly as young.

Sara remembered she'd had a plan then, ideas of romantic grandeur had slipped through the science and had her believing in the sort of love that she had seen in the movies. Years she'd waited patiently for him to eventually come around. Years hoping he'd learn to live life and embrace it, to embrace her.

She'd _always _had a plan. Graduate school by 24, a job in a reputable lab by 25 and then a career and a life living it. Maybe marriage, maybe not. And all that was quite literally shot to shit when she'd been fickle enough to give in to a whim, give in to a flutter that had run throughout her body when Gil Grissom had first taken her hand and offered a hearty shake.

And now here she was, spending her entire life wanting one man, knowing there was an ever growing chance that she would never have him. Knowing now that he was out with another woman, under the same circumstances that she had been when she'd fallen in love.

From love to suffering. That fast; that fatal.

Maybe their talks, their meetings, their walks, had all been in the guise of simple acquaintance. Maybe she really was just another person, another colleague. Though she didn't want to think about it, it was probably true.

Sara remembered when being solitary was a good thing, not needing anything to fill her up. She remembered how alone she'd felt when he had stumbled into her life and how empty she was when he had left. And even now, without really having him, even with a gaping Grissom-shaped hole in her soul, she felt more full than she'd ever been in her life.

But now--she was just another woman, another one fallen, another one broken. Another one who'd allowed herself to be captured by the idea of a man instead of the real flesh and blood thing.

It was too much; just thinking about what he was out doing, who he was doing it with. God, why he was doing it! The images had her stomach twisted in expert knots.

She remembered back to when she would take her coffee straight black. He too took his black, with just a hint of sugar. They never had felt the need to wander off to a coffee joint together, had been fine with sipping their luke-warm in the cafeteria, or on a park bench.

She'd never needed a half-caf latte and Grissom had never found the urge to order espresso. They'd been boring, pedantic, sipping the dark liquid out of plain Styrofoam cups.

Their conversation would color their palette, their beverages serving only to ward off the lethargy they felt in order to talk more.

He'd buy, or she'd buy, it never mattered and neither ever felt the need to pay the other back. Sara wondered masochistically whether he had bought his 'new' student a cup or if she had offered to pay. She wondered if coffee had morphed into something more, if he'd be having another cup with the new woman, this time upon awakening.

Sara decided she was done with waiting for something she would never have. All that tension, all of the frustration and fear and dark lonely pain--she got up off the couch, pressed the wrinkles out of her jeans and resolved to let it all off of her chest.

Driving home, she began making a mental list of things she needed to do. Sara stopped counting at fifteen; fifteen things she wanted to do before her day was over. Some were simple things: find her yearbook and clean the refrigerator. Others were more difficult: call her brother, tell Grissom some hard truths and under the heading 'truths' there was a world of hurt ready to be categorized.

Inside her apartment, Sara began tackling the refrigerator, wrote down a few of her mentally-listed items and put her brother on speakerphone while she did so. He was in Chicago, married and in rehab. He had a steady job at an investment firm, putting his college degree to actual use. And when he disconnected the call, there were tears in his voice, as he told her he loved her. He missed her.

Sara disconnected the call and blinked a lot, then put her vegetable bins back in their cradles. When she'd completed that, she cleaned out her medicine cabinet, pulled a black dress from the back of her closet (just as a reminder to wear it in the near future), and lit some therapeutic candles that she had bought years ago.

Easy.

And then, she called Grissom. With each button pressed, a tiny fraction of weight dissipated from her shoulders, from off of her chest.

"Hell… hello?" she could hear him rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Oh, I woke you up," she began, fumbling over her words, the courage she had managed to muster slipping away. "I'm sorry, I'll call later."

"No!" he said, suddenly sounding very awake. "I was just resting my eyes, what do you need?"

Need? Well--she needed a lot of things.

Sara toyed her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment. "I need to talk to you."

There was silence on his end of the phone; she then heard rustling of sheets and the distinct sound of him clearing his throat. "Can uh, it wait until tonight?" but she knew he was already pulling on his pants.

"I, yeah, I guess-"

"Know what? I've got to get coffee anyway; I'll just--should I-"

"Why don't you just stop by afterwards?" she offered, closing her eyes tightly, biting her lip once more as she waited for his response.

Again Grissom cleared his throat. "Yes, I'll do that."

Silence filtered in once more, lingering on the line until she spoke, "So I'll see you . . . soon."

Grissom said, "Yes," quickly and then disconnected in her ear.

Sara, at a loss for things to do made her bed, changed her drapes and reorganized her desk. Then she went online and ordered a skirt, a pink skirt, and vowed that she would wear to work.

Just another thing to cross off of her list.

When Grissom arrived at her place, she was just shutting down her computer, and hadn't had the thought or time to change out of her grimy clothes. Instead of fretting about it, she walked to her door and let him in.

He looked ragged and exhausted, but Sara said nothing, simply stepped aside and allowed him entry. "Coffee?" he held up the paper bag in front of her face, but she shook her head.

"I've uh, I've already got some going," Sara glanced around her living room, as did he, and they stood there awkwardly, as if waiting for the earth to move and shift them into their correct places. "Have a seat?"

Grissom nodded, and though he attempted to betray nothing of his inner turmoil, his hands shook a tiny bit. Sara noticed them immediately and began wringing her own in an attempt to placate her nerves.

She watched Grissom settle on her sofa, pulling the ends of his jacket in to him to simply give his hands something to do. Sara smiled gently, clasped her own in front of her. She wet her lips and slowly, began speaking.

"I need to apologize for how I've acted these past few years. It was inappropriate and I realize that now. I came here, to Vegas, for the wrong reasons." She took a moment to get her thoughts in order, then licked her lips again and continued. "And I really need to get this off of my chest," she said in a whoosh of breath, "Because I've kept this for years now."

Grissom, blinked and waited for her to continue, his body so utterly still he looked frozen.

Sara braced herself and made absolutely sure she could keep her eyes focused on his. "I feel more for you than a colleague should. I feel more for you than a friend should. I feel more for you than--is appropriate given our circumstances. And getting it off my chest--" Sara paused and was unable to overcome the grief that slid into her voice. "--I just wished so badly that you could have been the one, that one."

"Well--" Grissom tried but knew he was failing miserably, "This is never easy," he concluded, withering a bit. "This--is something--you needed to tell me all of this **now**, all of a sudden?"

"No, I just made a list of some things that had to get done before the sun came up."

Sara swallowed, reached behind her and held up a sheet of paper to him. There in her distinct scrawl was, 'Tell Grissom,' followed by something illegible.

There was nothing to say; he couldn't think of a single intelligent thing to state, so he simply replied, "I'm on your list."

"Yeah," she huffed, in a twisted sort of sadness. "You're on a lot of my lists."

Grissom sighed and hung his head. Whether he was formulating a plan or regretting going to her apartment in the first place, she couldn't tell.

"It-it seems that this-is-very important to you," he murmured and paused, lifting his head to gaze at her. "Just--give me a moment, let me get in that space."

Sara laughed a little and took a seat in front of him. "Wasn't prepared for something this heavy?" she chuckled and leaned back in the chair, attempting in vain to get comfortable.

He smiled at her; a quirky sweet thing, and tilted his head to the side. "I, no, I wasn't." Grissom thought for a long minute. "But that doesn't mean I don't want to hear it."

Catching her by surprise, Grissom shifted over on the couch, bring himself closer to her. Steepling his fingers in his lap, he emitted what seemed to be the thousandth sigh he had sighed since entering her apartment. "I think I need to hear it."

Sara kept the smile on her face, "You just heard it."

Comically, Grissom raised a brow, "And we both know there's more **to** it than that, isn't there?"

Sara allowed her arms to fall slack at her side as her head rolled against the back of the chair. "There's a lot more," she admitted, but didn't bother looking at him. "But then I've got the cliffnotes version too, so it just depends which you're up to hearing," she mused, "Or what I'm up to saying, really."

"Then let's start with that."

Sara rolled her head so she could at least see him, and then rolled her eyes at him. "This is quid pro quo, Clarice," she quipped. "Not a one-way street."

It took a moment, but he nodded at her reference, his frame relaxing against the leather of the couch. "That's fair."

"I just," she began, and wrung her hands in her lap. "I came here with a reason. To this city; I uprooted my entire life, that's something I don't think you realize. I was independent, successful, happy in San Francisco. I'd have been where you are now if I had stayed."

Grissom relaxed his frame into the couch as his eyes softened to her tone. "You-you were the reason for that; I told you that. I need you to know I meant it. I still mean it and it still hurts."

Her voice dropped a few notches, and this time when she spoke, it was through a sad smile. "All I had was this wild notion that you were the only thing for me; look at me!" she said lightly. "Feminist to the core, and there I was, _here I am_, leaving my life, living my life through a man."

A smile bloomed on his lips; as much as he didn't want to hear it, he did. "Everything, dropped the second you called. I left it all, I'd still leave it all, and that scares me. I don't have you, but I'd do it all over again, to have _this_," she drew her hands back and forth between them, assuring him of what she meant. "This messed up pseudo-friendship," she stuttered, "This excuse for a life, a relationship, this excuse for love."

Sadness rose in her throat and moved to his heart, taking his body hostage. "You became my filter, Grissom, weeding everything out, all sorts of possibilities."

That had her on her feet, pacing slowly back and forth in front of the living room/kitchen divider. "That was all," Sara spoke to herself, eyes on the wall in front of her. "And that's, I mean, I have absolutely no right to ask this… what's so different about her?"

"What do you mean?"

The despair was evident in her voice and though she had no right to be angry, had absolutely no real grounds for being so except that the only man she'd ever really loved was seeing someone else--Sara was. "She warrants coffee afterwards? I-I'm sorry, I just don't--"

"I have coffee with a lot of people," Grissom shrugged helplessly, a hint of fear weaving its way in between syllables.

Sara smiled before she hung her head, "You haven't had coffee with me in eleven years. You haven't spoken to me in, really, like you used to, in nearly five."

"It's not--that's not--"

"Yeah, it's been eleven years. Eleven," Sara assured, although she didn't know if he needed reminding, "That's a lot of time."

Dumbfounded, Grissom sat searching for the appropriate words to make the situation better. Anything to lift the tension between them, even if only slightly.

Sara waited only a few seconds before continuing, "You know what, maybe this was a bad idea. I get upset and I overthink and--this was a bad idea, I'm sorry."

Grissom pulled a hand over his mouth, skimming his fingers over his beard; Sara stopped him from speaking. "This _was_ a bad idea, I, look. I'm sorry, just… I'm gonna go to bed now and… let's pretend we didn't do this." The way she said it made the retort die on his lips and he nodded slowly, a hint of remorse in the action. "It's easier that way."

He wanted to tell her that he didn't want it to be easy, he was ready for it to be hard. The look in her eyes, the way she was holding herself left absolutely no room for more words.

Grissom stood, defeated, bade Sara goodbye, grabbed his bag of coffee and left.

Her own coffee was still percolating, the sound of it dripping into the pot in lonely steady drops helped her not to cry.

A week went by, a week of her waking up, kicking herself mentally for allowing her feelings to overcome her rationale. A week of casual avoidance in the hallways, of pretending as if nothing had happened. Grissom did well in that department, flirting in subtle ways with her as always, ignoring her at points, calling her out on cases and refusing to work with her at intervals. Things, for him, seemed to be back to normal.

She, however, was willing herself to work up the courage to speak with him once more. _If you can't talk with him, how can you even fathom the idea of a relationship?_

Eight days later, in the middle of pulling out a box of evidence, Sara got a page marked urgent. Grissom informed her that there was a 419 in a park in Sevin Hills. Thankful for a case, Sara grabbed her kit and headed out, willing the matter with Grissom out of her mind for the time being.

A quick call to dispatch had her en route to the scene, the interior of the Denali was blissfully quiet. She made short time to the park, and upon arrival, hopped out with a bit more peace than she was actually feeling.

She found him seated on a bench, looking at the deserted park equipment. "Where's PD?"

"There's no case," he answered her clearly, concisely, and the heat began rising in her cheeks.

She pressed her kit to her side forcefully and demanded an explanation. Grissom shrugged and asked her to sit.

"I don't want to wait another eleven years," he said and handed up a cardboard cup to her expectantly, willing her to sit beside him. Sara took it and gazed at the worn equipment in front of them.

Taking a sip, she looked over at him, "What kind is this?"

Grissom shrugged, took a sip from his cup and inched closer to her on the bench. "Regular, from Murphy's."

Silence took over again, but instead of allowing it to settle between them, Sara bridged the gap, allowing her body to rest against the side of his. "It's good."

His hand lay open and ready next to hers. She acknowledged it and smiled gently at him, allowing her own fingers to rest on the worn wood. Not the place, not the time, but it would be… soon.

He'd never tell her that Abby was married with two children, or that she had brought him back to her home for that coffee.

She'd never tell him that it didn't matter who he was with, she would love him regardless.

They sat on the bench until around eleven, when the summer sun drove them back to the shadows.


End file.
